


Whispers of Immortality

by ashestodusters



Series: The Shadows We Hide [3]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Corvo and Daud are messes together, Corvo is not ok, Corvo the Royal Kleptomaniac, Daud is not ok, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I need to stop writing this, Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Daud, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Royal Spymaster Daud (Dishonored), all abroad the angst train, no really, this is the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11255961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashestodusters/pseuds/ashestodusters
Summary: Daud tries to settle into life at Dunwall Tower. Corvo tries to work out where he stands. Emily tries to reconcile Daud's new role in her life with his past. Amelia tries not to strangle anyone out of sheer frustation.A series of one-shots exploring the life and trials of Royal Spymaster Daud Al-Maharib.Sequel toThe Waste Land.





	1. Breaking ( Holding ) Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [entente](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952280) by [estora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estora/pseuds/estora). 



> The first of a series on one-shots and snippets exploring the life of Daud and Corvo following the events of _The Hollow Man_ and _The Waste Land_.  
>  Happy reading!

Penumbra

_I am but half a man, and I cast half a shadow_

~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*

 

~’*’~

Breaking ( Holding ) Fast

1841-1842

~’*’~

 

15th Day, Month of Hearths, 1841

For two months following his unexpected appointment as Royal Spymaster Daud exists in a bizarre limbo, and not purely as a result of the job.

Despite their apparent acceptance of him, even maybe forgiveness, welcome, Daud is yet to feel truly comfortable in the presence of the Corvo Attano and Emily Kaldwin. Forced to work in close quarters with them, part of him wonders if this is merely another form of punishment, to forever be walking on eggshells, waiting for the blow to fall. The other, more rational part of him insists that as Royal Spymaster it is to be expected that he would be working closely with them and that his punishment, insignificant as it was, has already been dealt, evidenced in the fresh scars across his back.

So, as he has for the past few months, unable to comprehend or understand his feelings with regard to a certain Empress and Royal Protector, he does what he does best when overwhelmed and retreats into his paperwork and brooding.

Not that there's a lack of the work, far from it. The office of the Royal Spymaster is best described as barely organised chaos, a mess of documents from which Hiram Burrows had planned a coup whilst somehow managing to at least look on the surface level like he was doing his job.

It has taken Daud this long just to sort through it all and make sense of the intelligence and networks he has inherited from a man who betrayed his office in the most complete sense of the word. Now, with the notes finally organised he has to decide what can be kept, what needs to be, _re-arranged_ for the lack of a better word, and what, or who, should be removed from the process entirely in order to ensure the safety of the young Empress.

It’s tiring, difficult work, his office lamps frequently burn into the early hours.

In it all Daud has one constant.

Every morning, he knows because it’s now his job to know, Corvo Attano and Emily Kaldwin eat together in the comfort of the Lord Protector's office under the pretence of running through the daily schedule.

And since that first maelstrom of a week, every morning at exactly half past seven, Amelia knocks on the door to his rooms bearing a tray from the kitchen and a mug of strong coffee and together they break their fast.

There is a surprising comfort to the routine, even though on some days Amelia's knock wakes him and on others he has already been buried beneath reams of ledgers and notebooks for hours. Even on the days when he can barely face opening his eyes, she is there.

Then again, Hypathia’s closing advice for him before they left for Dunwall had been on the importance of establishing routines, along with the recommendation that he seek out one of her colleagues to continue sessions with. So used he had gotten to the routine of life at the vineyard and the people of Reine that Daud hadn’t truly understood what Hypathia had meant until Amelia had first turned up with breakfast and he understood exactly how much of a mess his life had become in so short a time.

Overworked, self-neglect, exhaustion, isolation. So easily he had fallen back into the patterns.

Amelia had taken one look at him a fortnight in, dark shadows under his eyes, trembling hands, as he downed coffee as though it were a life-line, and informed him in no uncertain terms that he would be going to visit Dr. Harrowick that afternoon.

The following morning she had turned up again at seven thirty on the dot with breakfast and the announcement that she had spoken with Emily about reducing his workload to something actually feasible because he summarily failed to turn any of her requests down.

Amelia had insisted he speak to Dr. Harrowick about that too.

Daud is shamed, looking back, to realise that he had thought Emily’s instructions to be a continuation of his penance and he had pushed himself far beyond his limits to meet each and every one. A few stern words from Amelia later and he was suddenly on the receiving end of a thorough verbal thrashing from Emily Kaldwin about how disappointed she would be if she had to find a new spymaster because her current one had worked himself to death.

Daud can’t really bring himself to be surprised at exactly how quickly Amelia and Emily have become fast friends. The young Empresses original distrust of someone who could hold love in their heart for an ex-assassin, especially an ex-assassin who had murdered her mother, aside Amelia had, in the way she so often did, wormed her way into Emily's affection.

Now the pair are inseparable.

Maybe Emily is simply glad to have a playmate her age, Daud muses over a bite of toast as Amelia turns the page of the newspaper she has been perusing, or maybe Emily has found a fellow prankster in his daughter.

Perhaps Corvo is right to be concerned, Amelia was an alarmingly accomplished prankster even without assistance. It is only a matter of time before they manage to give one, or both, of them a heart attack.

“You seem far away this morning father,” Amelia observes without shifting her gaze from the article on the whaling industry.

“I was just thinking back to our first breakfasts together.”

Around a mouthful of toast Amelia manages an inquiring noise.

“I… want you to know I appreciate this,” Daud vaguely motions at the table, “it helps.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more. Amelia understands, she understands better than anyone who hard it can be to adapt to a new and strange situation around people who could potentially be hostile towards you. More than that, she understands him.

Daud turns back to finish his food, catching Amelia’s smile out of the corner of his eye, and if he hugs her more tightly than usual when she gets up to leave then neither of them mention it.

~’*’~

27th Day, Month of Timber, 1841

Sweat beading on his brow, sword swinging in his gentle grasp, Daud moves through the practice forms with a grace that the younger guardsmen envy.

As has become their habit, a number of the City Watch officers have turned up to observe his daily training sessions. At first they had watched with disgust and not a small amount of fear. Now, they observe his movement with sharp eyes and respect, recognising the skill and hard work that he made him one of the best swordsmen in the Isles.

Today, however, something is different, and murmurs shuffle through the ranks of the gathered men.

Discomfited Daud turns and finds himself facing the source of the disturbance.

Corvo Attano is stood just inside the courtyard, watching.

Faltering under his gaze, Daud’s movements stumble to a halt, his sword held loosely in his hand. For the most part, the relationship between them seems mainly to consist of avoiding each other where possible and being calmly ambivalent when they were forced to share a room.

None of this is helped by the fact that Daud has no idea how Corvo feels about him. The Royal Protector, it turns out, is also a consummate expert at hiding his emotions behind a stony façade. Beyond that, Daud’s knowledge of sign isn’t comprehensive enough to hold a full conversation, even with the lessons he has secretly been taking from another fellow court Serkonan, Katia Ellendez.

For a moment they regard each other, Royal Protector and Royal Spymaster, the air tense.

Then Corvo slides his coat off and flicks out his sword with an elegant gesture. Daud would be mesmerised by the blade’s design were he not suddenly worried about the likelihood of it imminently stabbing him.

But Corvo doesn’t move to engage him, not straight away.

Instead, he stretches, flips his sword in a brief warm up and then flicks it up into a duelling salute. Still desperately confused Daud moves to follow.

“Attano?” he asks, finding his voice and with relief finding it to be steady.

_Spar?_

Corvo signs one handed, a questioning look on his face as he shifts into a defensive stance.

Recognising the invitation for what it is Daud relaxes. Corvo is here to fight him, but not to hurt him. They both need this.

Daud nods sharply, renews his grip on his blade, and attacks.

~’*’~

11th Day, Month of Clans, 1841

“I heard that the Lord Protector has started sparing with you,” Aislin Harrowick’s Morley features are already striking, but being under the focus of her gaze makes Daud feel as though she can read all his secrets. It is both unnerving and comforting. Hypathia chose well.

“He has,” Daud confirms, shifting slightly in his seat.

“How do you feel about that?”

Coming from anyone else, the phrase would have made Daud flinch and retreat back into himself, but from Aislin it somehow always manages to sound sincere.

“Relieved, I suppose. Confused. Grateful.”

“That’s an interesting mix,” Aislin comments with complete honesty, “shall we unpack those feelings a bit?”

“I guess I’m relieved that we’ve found a way to behave normally around each other. In this midst of a fight there’s no room for tension, at least not in the way there usually is between us.”

Across the desk from him Aislin scribbles notes without once breaking eye contact.

“And your confusion?”

“That he doesn’t treat me like I deserve to be, like the murderer of his loved one. That I feel safe during the fights with him when I know he could kill me at any moment. As for being grateful, I guess I’m grateful for exactly the same reasons, that he treats me like an equal, that I feel safe.”

Aislin hums thoughtfully and then slides his nearly-full journal back over to him, their next appointment already pencilled in.

“Take some time before our next session to consider how you feel about Corvo and his actions.”

Nodding Daud makes to leave but Aislin’s voice calls him back.

“Oh, and Daud? Well done.” At his bemused look she elaborates. “On a year clean.”

Oh, of course. Subconsciously he traces the scars on his wrist, some from the original incident, a few from brief relapses in the months following.

Flushing slightly in a mix of embarrassment at forgetting about the milestone and pride at the thought that there was now a tangible measurement to his healing Daud leaves with a lightness to his steps that hadn’t been there earlier.

~’*’~

23rd Day, Month of Songs, 1841

Strolling down the alley, Daud mentally reviews the plans he and Corvo have already put in place for the Fugue Feast. Yet, ever cautious as his job demands, half his mind is reviewing his surroundings with equal attention.

It’s only because of this that he notices his tail.

Deliberately, Daud turns into an alley with a dead end and waits for the right moment. Royal Spymaster though he may be, that doesn’t mean he is averse to getting his hands dirty every now and then.

Pivoting, he pins his would-be-attacker against the wall in one smooth and assured movement, and immediately releases him, stumbling backwards in astonished recognition.

“Thomas?”

Still clad in his Whaler gear, although the mask is long gone, his trusted second, the closest thing he ever had to a son, firm, steadfast, loyal Thomas stares back at him in equal surprise.

“Master Daud,” Thomas breaths in wonderment, “it really is you.”

Then Daud does something that he never would have done five years ago, before he killed an empress, before everything went to shit, before he shattered and pieced himself back together.

He pulls a stunned Thomas into a firm embrace, burying his head in the younger man’s shoulder.

It takes a moment for the assassin to relax, but Daud silently rejoices when he feels his second tentatively return the hold.

“Thomas.” The whisper is a benediction.

Later, over a glass of Dunwall whiskey in one of the quieter and more discreet establishments that Daud knows, Thomas fills him in on all that has happened with the Whalers since his abrupt departure for Serkonos and removal of their powers.

He isn’t surprised to hear that about Galia’s desertion after Thomas had decided he could no longer lead the Whalers. What he is surprised to hear about is that despite Thomas’s attempts to back away from leadership, he is still either in contact with, or living with, a great many of the Whaler gang, all of whom had proclaimed continuing loyalty to Daud himself.

Unbidden an idea pops into his head.

“Thomas, how would you feel about working for me again?” Shrewd eyes fix on his face.

“In what capacity?”

“In whatever capacity the office of the Royal Spymaster requires,” Daud answered after a moment, “I can ensure a fair income for all those who choose to work under me, employment security, and guaranteed lodging.”

Thomas considers his drink for a long moment.

“Did you regret it, leaving?” Daud hesitates at the unexpected question, but responds with the honesty Thomas deserves.

“Leaving Dunwall? No, I don’t. Leaving the Whalers, leaving you? Not at first, not until I was far enough away to realise what I was leaving behind.”

Across from him Thomas doesn’t look up from his drink as he nods. Then, taking a fortifying breath, Thomas meets his gaze and shakes his hand.

“It’d be our pleasure boss.”

~’*’~

1st Day, Month of Harvest, 1842

Breaking the seal on the letter Daud cannot help but smile.

_Dearest Daud,_

_Amelia informs me that you are finally settling in at the Tower and that the issues we spoke about are resolving themselves._

_I’m glad to hear that you are still seeing Dr. Harrowick. I know that you’ve come a long way but I can tell from your last letter that you still have a way to go. As I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, you are loved, you are wanted, you are needed._

_The vineyard is fine, flourishing even. I expect an even bigger yield than last year. I hired the workers from Reine and Baskano that you requested to help with the harvest and will pay them as recommended. Don’t you worry, I’m following your recipe to the letter and refuse to let anyone else read it, your secret is safe for now!_

_I have to admit, I would never have seen myself running a vineyard, but I think I can see what you saw in it, there is a certain peace to the work._

_Visit soon, we all miss you, both of you._

_With affection,_

_Marissa._

Reverently, Daud carefully refolds the correspondence and tucks it away in a locked drawer in his desk full of similar letters.

Then, putting aside his work, he pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and begins to pen his reply.

~’*’~

12th Day, Month of Rain, 1842

For weeks Daud’s networks have whispered about approaching danger. Thomas, who has become somewhat of a spymaster in his own right acting as Daud’s contact with his various networks of spies and informants, had expressed his own unease at their meeting that morning, reporting on the mixture of rumours and intelligence that seems to have confirmed their fears.

Yet, so far they have failed to pin down any concrete facts about potential plans or culprits and so Daud spends his days tense, caught on a knife-edge waiting for the inevitable.

It is at one of Emily’s charity balls just after her fifteenth birthday that it finally happens.

Daud sees the man a split-second before Corvo does and he can tell immediately that Corvo isn’t going to make it in time. Daud doesn’t think, he acts.

There is a moment of shocking heat and blinding pain.

Then, blessedly, nothing.

~’*’~

16th Day, Month of Rain, 1842

Consciousness returns slowly. First, muffled voices begin to seep into his awareness, then the feeling of soft bedsheets against his side, then dulled pain. Everything is muted. Vaguely Daud recognises the sensation of being under the influence of heavy drugs.

Daud tries to open his eyes and immediately regrets it as a flash of pure white assaults his irises. Distantly, he hears himself whimper and the conversation around him stops.

“Is he awake?” The voice is one of the nurses, he recognises it from his previous visits to talk with Aislin.

“Fetch Doctor Harrowick,” says another.

There is rustling as they move around him. Daud drifts in and out for a time.

“Daud?” Aislin sounds concerned but hopeful. The world seeps back in and he hears someone settle on the edge of the bed. Then there is a hand on his forehead and instinctively he tries to jerk away but instead only manages a small frown. “The fever has reduced. Was he lucid?”

“We don’t know, he didn’t try to speak but he opened his eyes.”

“That’s a good sign.” A hand settles over his own on the covers. “Daud, if you can hear and understand me I want you to squeeze my hand.”

It is much harder that it should be to exert even a gentle pressure but he manages. Aislin makes a noise of approval and exhales in what sounds like relief. Daud goes to copy but there is something blocking his throat. He panics.

“Shhh,” Aislin soothes her hand grabbing his again as he moves to find the obstruction, “it’s alright Daud. There’s a tube in your throat to help with your breathing, you weren’t doing so well straight after the explosion and it’s been touch and go for a few days. It will feel uncomfortable now that you’re aware of it, try your best to relax, let it do the work.”

The explanation doesn’t help him calm down in the slightest, but he tries, and after a moment feels his body settle into a bizarre rhythm with the machinery.

“That’s it.” Aislin’s hand resettles on his forehead. “I need to make sure you’re with us fully before I remove it, the last time we tried your body couldn’t cope on its own. Can you open your eyes?”

Daud remembers how well that went last time and Aislin must read it on his face.

“I’ve shut the curtains, it shouldn’t hurt your eyes this time.”

Hesitantly, Daud forces them open again and immediately they burn at the light, but he blinks rapidly and the stinging quickly fades. Aislin Harrowick’s gentle Morley features swim slowly into focus.

In the back of his mind he notes that he is laid propped on his side and that his back aches with a fierceness he hasn’t felt since Corvo dealt his punishment nearly a year ago.

“There are you.” Her smile is soft as emerald briefly meets silver before she goes back to her examination. “Do you remember what happened?”

The last think Daud recalls clearly is spotting the explosive and moving to put himself between Emily Kaldwin and danger, but he imagines there wasn’t much after that anyway so he nods slightly.

“Excellent. Show me how many fingers I’m holding up?” Daud lifts three in response and gets another smile in return. “Perfect. I pronounce you lucid enough to get this tube out.”

There is motion around them and Aislin warns him before hands settle on his shoulders to hold him still.

“When I say I want you to cough as hard as you can.”

Daud coughs. The tube shifts as Aislin pulls it out and his throat clenches, painfully raw, enough to keep him coughing even after it’s out. Then hands are guiding a glass and cold water trickles lightly past his lips. Impulsively he swallows and thanks the void that the cool liquid soothes his throat enough that he is able to take a shaky breath unassisted.

Slowly, the supporting hands move away and until it is just Aislin holding him up with a gentle arm hooked around his side at an angle that suggests she’s trying to avoid jostling his injuries.

“Emily?” It turns out talking hurts even through the haze of painkillers.

“Unharmed, safe, thanks to you,” Aislin replies after shushing him, gently helping his settle back into the embrace of the pillows as she checks the lines feeding drugs into his bloodstream, “I wouldn’t recommend talking until your throat’s had a chance to recover.”

But Daud persists. "Amelia?"

"Your daughter is fine, if overtired. I sent her to bed," Aislin replied gently, "She refused to leave your side. Even Lord Attano couldn't convince her. I believe her exact words were something along the lines of 'over my dead fucking body' after which most people gave up."

 _That's my girl_. Daud can feel his eyes slipping closed again; even the small exertion has sapped him of his strength. Catching sight of his obvious tiredness Aislin smiles fondly, brushing his hair out of his face.

“It’s ok,” Aislin soothes, “rest now.”

If she says anything more Daud is already far too deep into the realm of sleep to hear it.

~’*’~

4th Day, Month of Wind, 1842

Shrugging on his heavy red coat with a restrained wince, Daud moves stiffly across the room to answer the knock on the door.

It’s early, too early to be Amelia.

Opening the door with a flourish he is surprised to find Emily Kaldwin waiting on the other side. It’s all the more shocking as Daud knows that this is first time she has approached him voluntarily and alone. Caught off-guard Daud stands dumbstruck for a moment before he regains his wits and begins to bow as procedure demands, doing his best to ignore the sudden hot pain that flares.

“No!” Startled at the shout Daud freezes, slowly straightening again, eyes flicking up to meet Emily’s hazel orbs, wondering what he has managed to do wrong in such a pathetically short amount of time.

“Your majesty?” he queries when the silence stretches on just a little too long to be comfortable.

Fidgeting, Emily seems to struggle for words. “It’s just, with your back, I thought, well, it must hurt,” her voice trails off for a moment and he watches as the young Empress visibly regains her courage, “You don’t need to bow if it’s hurting you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

Daud is suddenly struck by the realisation that although Emily is now fifteen, she is still in many ways a child.

“I… thank you, for your consideration,” Daud murmurs after struggling for words himself.

The silence stretches.

“Come to breakfast,” Emily blurts suddenly. Eyes wide, seemingly having startled herself, Emily takes a deep breath to rein herself in. “That is, I would like to invite you and Amelia to attend breakfast with myself and the Lord Protector.” A moment later a prompt “today” is added when he fails to reply.

Daud takes a moment to breathe.

“I would be honoured Your Majesty.” He sees the recognition in her eyes at his deliberate choice of words, remembering the day he accepted his role as Royal Spymaster.

Nodding sharply, Emily turns to leave but pauses suddenly after half a step, wringing her hands her gaze flicks back to him and then nervously jumps away again.

“Daud… thank you.”

Stunned, Daud watches as the Empress of the Isles walks away. She has never before called him by name. She has no reason to thank him, all of her suffering has been because of his actions.

And yet…

With a smile blossoming on his face, Daud closes the door behind him and starts off down the hall to wake Amelia for breakfast.


	2. Keep Your Enemies ( Friends ) Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud has a few setbacks. Corvo is generally confused by emotions. Emily makes a stand. Amelia once again tries not to strangle anyone out of sheer frustation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo for chapter 2!  
> Have some more angst (and a bit of fluff :P)
> 
> This chapter was at least partially inspired by the 'honor for all' series and 'entente' by the wonderful estora - go check them out (I've linked the first work in the honor for all series for your enjoyment!)
> 
> Each of these chapters seems to have ended up focussing on a particular relationship, last time it was Daud and Emily coming to terms with their pasts. This time it's Daud and Corvo learning to be friends (of a sort)!

~’*’~

Keep Your Enemies ( Friends ) Close

1843 – 1844

~’*’~

 

17th Day, Month of High Cold, 1843

Much to Daud’s surprise, breakfast with the Empress and Attano becomes something of a regular occurrence.

Only today, Amelia is tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and some of the Daud’s herbs and is seems that Corvo is also mysteriously missing, which makes breakfast exquisitely awkward. Daud still has no idea how to act around Emily, especially when their alone. He always feels like her forgiveness has conditions.

“Was it ever this cold in Serkonos?”

The question startles him out of his thoughts and he barely manages to avoid physically jumping as well. Across the table Emily is the picture of innocence and she observes him over her coffee.

At sixteen, the young Empress is growing into her features and with every day she looks more and more like her mother. Not just in looks too, but in posture, in the air of the authority that she now wields. Young though she is, Emily is growing into a leader.

“Only in the very north.”

Emily hummed thoughtfully. “Corvo doesn’t like the cold, he never did, but he likes it even less now, after, well, after Coldridge.”

Daud manages to restrain a wince at the comment. He is fairly sure that Emily meant nothing by it but Daud cannot quite silence the voice that whispers _Corvo was only there because of you._ Today, it is safe to say, is not shaping up to be one of his good days. Without the influence of the gentle temperament of Amelia, Daud already feels off-balance.

Emily isn’t helping.

Not intentionally of course, but her very presence is sometimes enough to throw him headlong into the overwhelming guilt he so often battles.

“Anything to report on that pamphlet?”

Ah yes, the pamphlet. One of Dunwall’s citizens, likely, Daud thought, to be of the richer descent, had taken exception to Emily’s most recent social venture of free schooling for all children, funded, naturally, out of slightly increased taxation. Or, in other words, the pockets of the wealthy.

The pamphlet had been a particularly nasty example of some of the anti-royal propaganda going around lately, and thus far Daud’s networks were yet to come up with any solid suspects. Which was odd, because Daud’s networks, now fully established and integrated with the remaining group of loyal Whalers had so far done an exceptional job in rooting out conspirators and trouble-makers.

The last time they had failed to pin down a suspect Daud had taken a large amount of explosive shrapnel to the back. It wasn’t an experience he was keen to repeat anytime soon.

“Nothing yet your Majesty.”

Emily frowned and stared down at her mug as though it held all the answers.

“Well then you’ll have to do better or I’ll tell the Overseer’s you’re a witch.”

Threats to his life from Emily were nothing new. At the start, they had been concerning because Daud knew there was a chance she might actually follow through. By now, though, they were delivered with absolutely no heat behind them, and had become a bit of an inside joke.

Occasionally though, Emily managed to strike a nerve. Once she had threatened to tricking a Whaler into betraying him and it had shaken him so badly that it had taken Amelia three hours to convince him that Thomas would never to that to him.

Today however, it is worse. Far worse.

Suddenly, Daud is ten years old once more, walking along the dusty streets of Karnaca, firing his slingshot at broken bottles down alleys to hone his already impeccable aim.

Then he’s out in the fields, the small timber house he shares with his mother is just coming into view. And something is horribly, horribly wrong.

Smoke is rising.

Daud stares at the burning ruins of his home and then he’s running as far as he can towards the wreckage, shouting, screaming for his mother.

She’s there, outside the house. An Overseer stands behind her whilst another lifts a box full of her herbs and books and throws it merrily to be consumed by the flames. The first forces his mother to her knees as Daud skids to a stop just out of sight behind a rock.

“Your kind are not wanted here, witch.” He hears the Overseer burning the house down hiss.

“I am not a witch.”

“Restrict the lying tongue.” The Overseer standing behind her recites mockingly. “Witches cannot be allowed to live.”

The blade he is holding lifts, Daud moves, his mother sees him.

“Daud run!”

But he doesn’t, can’t, he’s rooted to the spot watching the Overseer bring the weapon down hard. His mother’s head snaps to the side. He doesn’t even know if she’s dead or not until the Overseer begins to drag her limp form away.

“Take her in for questioning,” the other Overseer grunts, “I’ll find the boy.”

The cart pulls away. The world is muffled. Daud feels anger rising inside him the likes of which he has never felt before.

He pulls out the crossbow he stole from a guard from his bag.

In the end, it’s not really any different than aiming with the slingshot. The Overseer who burned his home and accused his mother slumps over with empty eyes, dead before he has time to blink, the end of the bolt emerging neatly from the centre of his forehead.

It was the first time Daud killed.

It was also, he would later realise, the first time the Outside took notice of him. The soon-to-be orphaned son of a Pandyssian ex-slave. Now with a taste for killing and an anger that would not be truly satisfied for many, many years to come.

Daud comes back to himself slowly, as he often does from these episodes, still smelling the phantom smoke. It takes him a little longer to recognise that he has ended up curled defensively in the corner of the room, that there are tears still trickling down his cheeks, and that Emily Kaldwin is watching him with wide, horrified eyes, from the other side of the room.

Fuck. He’s just had a breakdown in the middle of a meeting with the Empress.

“Your majesty?” Choked with tears, his voice sounds even more gruff than usual.

“I… I didn’t know what to do. Corvo… Corvo’s like this sometimes. Was it something I said? I’m sorry!” Emily sounds distraught. She looks terrified.

And there’s something else. It times him a moment to pinpoint it. She's scared, but not of him. Scared for him. It’s strange to think about. There are tears glistening in her eyes too, her hands are shaking.

Carefully, he uncurls himself from the corner, hiding his own trembling hands in his pockets, one hand squeezing the little rubber ball like a lifeline.

So, that’s it. Emily has finally seen how broken he is, despite his best efforts to keep his fragile mental state from her.

Expecting a rebuke, a dismissal from office, or worse, Emily once again surprises him.

“Are you… do you need to talk, is there someone..?”

Startled, confused, Daud answers without really thinking.

“I… yes, I… I see a doctor.” _Did you seriously just say that?_

“Oh,” and Emily actually looks relieved, “good. That’s, that’s really good.”

Discomforted, Daud shifts his weight, the tension is almost suffocating him. He desperately needs to be out of this room.

“I wish Corvo would,” Emily murmurs after a moment, “he needs to I think.” Then, straightening, as inspiration clearly strikes, “you should talk to him about it.”

Taking the order as the dismissal it most definitely wasn’t Daud hastily bows and backs away towards the door. Emily is too deep in thought to stop him.

“As you wish Empress.”

It’s only once the door has clicked shut behind him that Daud wonders how much of a shit-show of a situation Emily has just managed to drop him into.

 ~’*’~

25th Day, Month of Ice, 1843

For over a month, Emily’s words rest heavily on Daud.

Yes, he knows Corvo is damaged too. Yes, he believes that Corvo probably should also get help. There’s just one problem.

As far as Daud knows, Corvo still hates him and won’t listen to a word he says.

Add to this the fact that despite Corvo’s sudden rediscovery of his voice, Corvo is yet to say a single word to him.

It all comes to a head at an evening meeting with the Empress. Amelia is there too because Amelia is always there when Emily is these days. As predicted, the pair have become inseparable.

Corvo arrives a little late, which is not anything out of the ordinary, but he seems to be walking slowly, carefully, in a way that suggests something in wrong. For one horrible moment Daud thinks that Corvo must be hiding an injury.

But Emily, so perceptive, who knows her father so well, takes one look at the Lord Protector and releases a long-suffering sigh.

“Again Corvo?”

“Emily?” Corvo is clearly aiming for ignorance, but fails miserably with his still-rough voice.

Amelia, Daud notices, restrains a jump at the sound, not yet used to hearing Corvo speak. Emily releases another sigh.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Emily.” It’s a protest this time.

“I can make it an order _Lord Protector_.” There is no arguing with that tone.

Daud can only watch in stunned silence as Corvo sheepishly begins to unload what looks like half of Dunwall from his pockets, coins, medals, empty tins of food, bone charms, even a rolled up painting. Heck, if he had needed any further proof that Corvo was just as fucked up as him then he had it.

Katia had told him once during a private sign-language lesson that Corvo had a habit of picking things up, hoarding even, a left-over from prison where he had nothing. Suddenly having _things_ again following his break out had been too much for Corvo. At first it had been justified, the guard’s didn’t need the coins as much as he did, the food filled his empty stomach, but what started as the collection of necessity had barrelled into a coping strategy and meant that if Corvo was ever left alone someone, or even someone, he had a tendency to loot the place, or person, from top to bottom.

Daud hadn’t realised it was this bad.

So that’s how it was. Daud hurt, Corvo stole. A self-harmer and a kleptomaniac.

The Empire was officially screwed.

It is also the straw that finally breaks the camel’s back.

“This can’t go on Corvo.” Emily draws herself up, taking matters into her own hands, ready to issue a command. “You need help.” Then she sends a pointed look Daud’s way.

Corvo, ever observant, doesn’t miss it and realises that he’s about to lose his only potential friend in this situation. Corvo’s facial expression is a familiar one to Daud. He recognises the panicked planes far too well. But this time, he won’t spare Corvo from facing this.

“I can recommend Doctor Harrowick. She’s the one I see.” Corvo shoots him a betrayed look but Daud refuses to back down. “Go Attano, this afternoon. You’re no use to Emily if you have a panic attack in the middle of an assassination attempt.” Corvo looks pained at the very thought, it’s enough to convince Daud to keep going. “A very wise person once told me that sometimes the hardest thing is taking the first step.”

Grief when did he become a therapist?

It surprises them all when he takes Daud’s advice and actually goes.

 ~’*’~

6th Day, Month of Timber, 1843

“Happy birthday!”

It’s ridiculously early but Daud doesn’t care. With his workload and Amelia’s growing friendship with Emily he’s barely seen her lately. He’s missed her. So he’s stayed up late the last few days to ensure that he can set aside a full day to spend with her.

Pulling the covers more firmly over her head his daughter grumbles sleepily.

“Dad! I’m sleeping.”

“Clearly,” Daud replies with a cheery smirk as he yanks the covers away and is faced with his disgruntled daughter, her hair is doing an excellent impression of a bird’s nest. “But it’s your birthday Millie, that makes it a special day, and I don’t want you to miss a single second of it.”

If glares could kill, Daud would already be floating across the Void towards the afterlife.

“Dad.” Amelia’s tone can only be described as a whine, but there’s a smile tugged at her lips in response to his own good cheer. Quietening, Daud perches on the edge of the bed beside her and opens his arms. Amelia flies into his embrace, curling into the warmth he provides.

“Happy birthday kid.”

Her voice is muffled in his shirt but he hears her loud and clear.

“Thanks dad.”

Then, quieter.

“I’ve missed you.”

Pulling her closer, Daud drops a gentle kiss into her hair.

“Me too.”

~’*’~

13th Day, Month of Songs, 1843

There is nothing Daud _loathes_ as much as parliament meetings. No, that’s not it. He _loathes_ that his position means he actually has to attend them when usually he actually enjoys his work.

Down the long parliamentary table an elderly Gristolian aristocrat is droning on and on about something that Daud is sure is probably important but that he tuned out hours ago, or at least it feels like hours.

Across the table from him, sat to the left of Emily who, as Empress, has seat of honour at the head of the table, is Corvo Attano. Attano, who has perfected the exact look Daud is sure now sits upon his own face, a mask of polite interest under which the Lord Protector hides whilst his mind muses on other things.

Or in other words, Attano is just as bored as he is.

Perhaps sensing the scrutiny he is under Attano’s gaze suddenly snaps to his and Daud finds himself caught. At Corvo’s raised eyebrow he gives a minute shrug, gestures towards the speaker, subtly makes a particularly rude sign, and for a moment they sit in shared commiseration.

Then, much to his surprise Corvo suddenly cracks a smile and begins to sign back.

_Please. Kill me now._

Startled Daud barely manages to restrain the snort of laughter that threatens to escape him. Instead he allows a tentative smile to spread across his own face.

At least in this, Corvo is an ally.

Risking it, Daud flicks his hands in now familiar patterns.

_And make a mess all over this lovely table? So uncivilised._

Corvo’s fading grins turns into a choked laugh that he’s forced to hide behind a faked cough.

The aristocrat further down the table falls silent and shoots them a look. They give him matching expressions of innocence and, with a suspicious eye, the aristocrat starts up again. Daud wonders if he’s noticed that the man next to him has fallen asleep.

Relaxing, Daud glances over at Corvo who forms the sign for sleep surreptitiously. Clearly he’d noticed too. As they duck their heads to hide their smirks like naughty children, Daud realises suddenly that he would tentatively call Corvo a friend which, considering their history, seems laughable.

Sobered by the thought he signs once more.

_Spar later?_

Corvo nods, still grinning, hair falling to obscure his face from the politicians down the table.

A few months of therapy have done wonders for the Lord Protector. Though he still has a habit of pickpocketing people, he seems calmer, less tense and jumpy, and he’s freer with his emotions around those he trusts, finally emerging from behind the stone façade of the masked felon.

Smiling suits him.

 ~’*’~

18th Day, Month of Nets, 1844

The riot was inevitable the moment the writer of pamphlets pinned the blame for the failure of the free schooling systems solely on Emily. Which was, or course, nonsense, because no one had fought harder to get the petition through than the sympathetic young Empress. Not that the people knew that. They were angry and they wanted someone to blame.

In a lot of ways they were lucky. Daud’s spy network finally pulled through, tracking down the author through gentle bribery of the printers they had identified. The name didn’t surprise Daud, it was one of the more wealthy aristocrats, well known to the Spymaster for being outspoken behind Emily’s back. Daud just hadn’t thought the man would actually have the guts to go through with it.

That, and they had an early warning system.

Daud was in the middle of a training session with Amelia and Corvo, who had insisted upon joining them to teach Amelia some of his own moves, when he suddenly felt his Mark flare and a urgent tug upon the Arcane Bond.

Thomas.

A quick glance around with his void gaze and then Daud released the built up energy and Thomas formed from ash in front of him, hunched over and panting.

“Thomas?” Behind them, Amelia had frozen and straightened. She knew it was serious when he indulged in an incredibly rare use of his Void given powers.

“Rioters, breaking through the gate, going for the Empress.” Thomas gasps out.

In an instant they are ready. Corvo’s hand is forming a fist ready to Blink, Amelia has tightened her grip on her blade, prepared to do her bit in defence of her friend. Daud reaches out and grasps hold of Amelia’s shoulder, letting the mana build up for his own transversal.

The Spymaster and Protector share a look.

Then, in perfect synch, they move.

 ~’*’~

23rd Day, Month of Nets, 1844

"How did it make you feel?"

For once Daud wishes Aislin would actually be blunt. Why couldn't they say it? Yes, he, the Royal Spymaster, had killed a man to save Amelia and the Empress. And suddenly the entire court is walking on fucking eggshells around him.

Daud stares down at his trembling hands, suddenly angry beyond words and curls his fingers to form fists in the hopes of quelling the shaking, unsuccessfully. His laugh is derisive.

_The steadiest hands in Serkonos._

"You know what?" he says bitterly, "I don't think I feel at all."

There is a mild pause.

"I think you feel too much," Aislin finally speaks, her voice soft as though he were a wounded animal and it grates. "I think the problem here is precisely that you didn't."

"What?" Daud snaps, gruff, already running out of patience with this whole façade.

"The problem is that you didn't _think_ Daud, you acted on instinct. With your training, what you did yesterday, it was reflexive."

"And?" Daud prompted bitingly when it became clear Aislin wasn't going to continue.

"And," the voice was back again, "now you've had time to think."

“That I killed a man?” The volume of Daud’s voice surprises himself, but he’s too far gone to care anymore. “That I’m a murderer? An assassin? That I can’t fucking change no matter how hard I try? That my black heart doesn’t know what it means to be _good_?”

Aislin is staring at him with wide eyes. As the rage that enveloped his tirade fades Daud is stunned to realise that he’s standing now, and has backed Aislin into a corner, one of his clenched fists has clearly slammed into the wall above her head because a fierce ache is just making itself known.

Beneath his threatening bulk, Aislin is shaking.

She’s scared.

Of him.

“Oh God, oh _fuck._ ” Horrified, Daud backs away until he hits the desk he must have vaulted and his legs give out beneath him and he drops ungainly to the floor in a heap of leather coat and quivering limbs.

“Father?” Then Amelia is there and Daud, who was convinced this couldn’t possibly get any worse, realises that it most definitely can.

He can’t bear the look in his daughter’s eyes, that mixture of pity and disappointment.

“I… I need help… I can’t.” His voice is trembling badly too, belatedly he recognises that he’s crying. Amelia’s familiar arms embrace him, calming him.

She never did have any survival instinct.

“Shhh, father. It’s going to be ok. You stopped, Aislin’s fine. Shhh.”

Aislin kneels down beside him, her hand cards softly through his hair. His breathing begins to slow and the world drifts back into focus.

As breakdowns go, it surprisingly isn’t the worst he’s faced, but it’s close.

There’s another rustle in the doorway, a familiar noise. Resigned, Daud looks up and meets Corvo’s eyes but there is an expression on the Lord Protector’s face that he can’t explain. If pushed, he would describe it as understanding. In that moment something inexplicable passes between them, the two broken men, the hollow men.

Suddenly, Corvo is there too, an arm firm and warm around his shoulders.

A rough, deep voice joins Amelia’s murmurs.

“I forgive you.”


	3. The Things We ( Need To ) Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud makes a new friend. Corvo has sass. Emily quietly observes the chaos. Amelia is hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pleased to report that this chapter contains over 100% more Whalers.  
> You're welcome.

~’*’~

The Things We ( Need To ) Say

1845-1846

~’*’~

 

3rd Day, Month of Hearths, 1845

The fire crackles cheerfully in the corner, battling off the chill of the twilight breeze. Despite being back in Gristol for several years Daud finds that he hasn’t adapted as well to the cold of Dunwall as Amelia has, betrayed by his Serkonan blood, or maybe just by the scars that this place has left on him.

Curled up in the comfortable wing-backed chair by the fireplace that exists purely for her use, his daughter idly turns the page of her current reading material.

It’s not the vineyard but here, in the soft light of the early evening and enjoying the quiet company of one of the few people to accept him completely, Daud feels a bone-deep calm settle over him which even the paperwork he is slogging through cannot penetrate.

That is, until Amelia breaks the silence with the one question he had hoped she would never ask.

“What’s it like, killing?”

Slowly, Daud lowers his pen from the letter he has been agonising over for the last few minutes and lifts his eyes to meet Amelia’s steady gaze.

“You already know,” he grunts after a steady breath, “you killed plenty of rabbits in Reine.”

Amelia isn’t in the mood for avoidance.

“You know what I mean father. What is it like to kill another person?”

Sighing, Daud lays the pen down completely and folds his arms upon the desk, giving his daughter his full attention for what is quite possibly going to be the most important conversation of their lives together.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to work out how best to reply. He fails and tries another track instead.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I, I just want to understand,” Amelia drops her head and fidgets with the book in her lap. It’s the most vulnerable Daud has seen her in a long time and protective urges rise up.

A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to him.

“You haven’t..?” he trails off, unable to finish the sentence without gorge rising at the image of Amelia standing over a dead body.

“No!” His daughter’s eyes are wide. “Void, no. I just want to understand what, well, what made you this way.”

Amelia’s voice quietens as the adrenaline-fuelled exclamation runs out of steam and her courage fails. Shoulders relaxing in the slump of relief Daud returns to considering how to even begin approaching such a difficult, delicate topic.

“Killing,” he starts softly and to Amelia’s visible surprise, “is easy, and hard. It’s horror, brutality, determination and power wrapped up in one neat package.” He pauses, uncertain about how to continue. Amelia prompts him by poking his explanation into smaller chunks.

“Power?”

“Taking someone’s life, it makes you feel powerful, special, as though by ending another’s life befire their time you have fought a battle of wills with death and come out on top. But it’s not a good sort of power, it builds you up and weighs you down and costs much, much more than its worth. It’s only a matter of time before you realise that you aren’t special at all, you’re just one amongst hundreds of killers and the blood on your hands won’t ever come off.”

Amelia is silent for a long moment.

“What did it cost you?” Daud swallows hard around his constricting throat.

“My innocence,” he finally croaks in a broken whisper, “my soul. Everything in me that was good.”

A beat. Amelia twiddles the corner of a dog-eared page.

“And you said that it’s both easy and hard?” Amelia asks after some serious consideration.

“The act of killing itself is easy,” Daud fiddles with the lid of the pen, pulling it off and pushing it on again and again with a quiet click. “Once you know how, sliding a blade between ribs, or aiming with a crossbow, it’s easy. Disassociating yourself, that’s hard, that’s the difference between good people and people like me.”

Amelia raises an eyebrow at that.

“The first time I killed I was ten years old and angry beyond anything I’d ever felt before. I think my anger made it easier to process that I’d taken a life at first, easier to label the man as an Overseer, as evil, and not think of him as a person with hopes and dreams and friends that he’d planned to smoke cigars with that night.”

Daud sighs; the pen clicks a few more times.

“You distance yourself from them, you label them because you can justify destroying a label. So you clump people together under the banner of _the enemy_ or _dangerous_ or even _a mark_ , _target_. That’s the trick, ignoring their humanity, the notes they leave for their family, the drawings stuck to their walls, the warmth of their blood as it spills on the ground.”

Daud pauses, aware that he’s rambling but he needs to get this out, needs to teach Amelia the lesson that he took so painfully long to learn.

“Skill, anyone can learn, but the mindset is the real foundation. Good men, they don’t find killing easy. Men like me, we do. We burn bright, until we run out of fuel, and the consequences catch up to us.”

Across from him, Amelia absorbs all of this is silence.

Then, finally.

“How did it feel?”

“Horrific.” Daud doesn’t need to say anymore, his tone and the weight of the word conveys the depth of the feeling.

Amelia nods, Daud can picture her filing the information away. He can’t help but wonder what has brought this on, the sudden and focused questioning. He can’t work out whether or not Amelia is hiding something from him and that makes him uneasy beyond words.

“I’m not sure I’d be able to.”

Amelia’s words are quiet, absentminded as she flicks the page of her book over without absorbing a single word.

“To what, Millie?” Daud asks, emotionally drained but determined to see this through.

“Kill someone.”

A heavy silence settles between them.

“I hope you never have to.”

Then, quietly to himself he adds, “For both our sakes.”

~’*’~

11th Day, Month of Seeds, 1845

There is nothing, Daud decides, quite like a game of Nancy with Corvo and the Whalers after a difficult week.

Finally able to lower his guard, he savours the subtle flavours of the whiskey and muses on the fickleness of politicians with his closest ally in court, and _dare he say_ friend.

“I have to admit I enjoyed the look on Wortherton’s face when Edgeware backed the education bill.”

Corvo huffs a chuckle.

“So did Emily. It seems not a week ago they were decrying her over the increased taxation.”

Corvo shifts the cards around in his hands as Daud takes a long sip from his glass to hide the warm sensation in his chest.

Corvo was a man of few words _before_ Coldridge. These days it’s almost considered an honour in court to be on the receiving end of the rumbling bass of the voice of the saviour of Dunwall. So for Corvo to make the effort to speak to him, it’s…

It’s good.

“People have short memories, I’ve found, especially when it comes to politics.”

Corvo grumbles in what might be agreement and makes no comment about the belated reply.

“Raise.” Across the table, Feodor announces his move, full of confidence and bluster. Daud knows him well enough to know that the Morley man is not actually bluffing. Some of the new novices that had joined them for the weekly evening game of Nancy do not and try to call him out on it.

Aeolos in particular, if Daud has remembered his name correctly, is staring at his cards with intense concentration, as though he could change them through will alone. Quinn, so young and skittish and clearly still terrified of him accidently meets his gaze, flushes, and hurriedly looks away again.

Void, what exactly has Thomas been saying about him to the fresh recruits?

Misha, on the other hand, a veteran of both the Whalers and Nancy, has sensibly taken one look at Feodor’s face and folded for the round. Shrewd woman. Daud glances down at his own hand again and considers whether it’s worth the risk, beside him the slight twitch of Corvo’s eyebrow gives away that he’s thinking along the same lines. There’s a chance that one of them has a better hand than the Whaler.

Relaxing back into the cushions and toying with the rim of his glass, Daud marvels that he’s been able to get to know Attano well enough to spot his tells, to earn his forgiveness, to become his friend. So many second chances that he doesn’t deserve.

He risks it.

“I’ll call.”

To his right Hobson jumps anxiously at the gruff sound of his voice and Daud, with an internal sign, vows to have that word with Thomas, whom he realises is conspicuously absent. Soon.

Corvo’s hand lets go of the cards and flicks in a familiar pattern as he calls as well.

From the opposite side of the desk Feodor shoots them a cocky grin to which the corner of Daud’s mouth lifts in a smirk in return and between them the new Whalers squirm uncomfortably in their seats.

No, it’s not good. It’s perfect.

~’*’~

26th Day, Month of Songs, 1845

Whispers are coming out of Serkonos.

Bad whispers.

Daud stares at the papers and the Lord Protector sprawled over his desk and lets out a long sigh, fingers of one hand coming up to massage the building migraine away whilst the other reached out to poke Corvo awake.

Well practised in the art of waking a sleeping lion Daud jumps back the moment his hand makes contact and Corvo leaps awake with a swing of his blade in Daud’s general direction. The sword drops a moment later as the bodyguard takes in his surroundings, as which point his hand is directed to brushing back his now short and silvered hair and rubbing some life back into his eyes.

“Morning?” Corvo manages to make it sound like both a statement and a question. Daud offers a nod of confirmation.

Neither of them are strangers to pulling all-nighters in the name of work.

“Coffee?” Daud asks as Corvo stumbles up in the direction of the door.

“How’d you know?”

There’s a barely veiled layer of sarcasm in Attano’s voice. Daud had been delighted the first time he realised that Corvo sassed when he was sleepy and this opportunity is too good to miss.

“I know a great deal bodyguard.”

Corvo stops dead with a snort and gives him a deeply sardonic look.

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, though there’s an amused smirk emerging on his face, and walks out without a backward glance.

Daud turns back to the cluttered desk, resigned to sorting through it all, half-asleep and without the rejuvenation of rest or coffee.

Which is probably the only reason the assailant manages to sneak up on him at all.

~’*’~

There are any number of pleasant ways to wake.

This isn’t one of them.

Spluttering, Daud spits out water and blinks through droplets trickling across his eyes, brain struggling to catch up with his body as he catalogues his situation with ruthless efficiency.

Point one, he’s tied securely to a chair and his Marked hand is bound so that he cannot move it. A swift tug does nothing but tightens the ropes. Very securely.

Point two, he seems to be in a familiar looking room. It takes him a moment to place it as one of the sewers underneath the Draper’s Ward.

Point three, the woman holding the now empty bucket of icy water is recognisably a Brigmore witch.

Definitely better ways to wake.

“The mouse is awake sisters,” the witch hisses in a tone that never fails to send an unpleasant tingle down his spine.

Twisting his head rewards him with an alarmingly powerful backhand across the face, but he’s able to get a headcount in the brief glimpse. There’s only three. If he can get out of these ropes he can take three.

“What do you want?” he growls, bristling in defence, but all the do is glare angrily at him from across the room, cloaked in tension.

“You destroyed our Mistress,” the youngest one finally spits when the fury becomes too much to contain.

“She deserved it.”

His snark earns him another punch, harder this time. His head snaps to the side, he tastes blood, his ears ring.

Above the buzzing in his head he can hear the witches moving.

Then a gloved and thorn covered hand claps over his mouth and another pinches his nose. Recognising a suffocating hold when he feels one, Daud struggles, disorientated though he is, because he refuses to go out this way, but the witch's hold is firm and tight.

Desperate for air and with his vision fading Daud reacts instinctively when the grasp drops and inhales sharply.

Only, he doesn’t inhale air.

No, what he breathes in is acrid and fiery and sends agony crackling across his chest. Jerking backwards he tries to get away from the smoking flask that he can now see the witch holding in front of him, but the witch’s hands are back holding his head firmly in place and he has no choice but to breathe the concoction in.

Eventually the one observing a few steps away intervenes and pulls the flask away. Daud gasps in relief as fresh air enters his lungs and the burning fades from excruciating to merely searing.

If he had the oxygen, he would be screaming.

“Not too much now sister,” the eldest one scolds gently though she watches his suffering with glee even as she herds the remains of the coven towards the door, “we will have our revenge.”

Still gulping in air despite the pain, Daud barely hears the next words over the encroaching tug of unconsciousness.

“We need him alive for when the Mistress returns.”

Eyes filled with tears from the chemicals, lungs burning, Daud feels a cold chill sweep over him at the witch’s departing shot. Delilah was trapped in the Void for all eternity, there was no way her for to return, it simple wasn’t possible.

A last terrible thought slips out before blessed blackness engulfs him.

_Or was it?_

~’*’~

28th Day, Month of Songs, 1845

Daud jerks awake, coughing harshly, to the sounds of distant fighting, the clang of swords, the screeching of the witches , and the occasional report of a firing gun.

Then, after a few minutes everything goes very, very quiet.

Through the creaks of the old pipes the gentle tap of approaching footsteps.

“Well, you look terrible.”

Daud freezes at the voice that finally breaks the echoing silence. It is horribly familiar and the last person he wants as his rescuer.

He is suddenly overly aware that his left hand is bare.

“High Overseer,” he acknowledges neutrally as Khulan steps into the light, blade ready in his grip. Khulan’s eyes dart around the room, checking for any surviving witches. Then, at the all clear, he drops his guard and moves towards the bound man, tucking his sword away and shifting his focus instead to the heavy ropes holding Daud firmly in place, or rather by this point, holding him up.

“Lord Spymaster.”

Closer now, Khulan’s eyes rake over him from top to bottom, assessing his condition. Daud can’t help but notice when the Overseer’s gaze falters slightly as he inevitably catches sight of the Mark that is branded into his skin.

The moment stretches tensely.

“Are you going to turn me in?”

Daud breaks it, croaking through a ragged throat and feels a fresh wave of empathy towards Corvo because this grating pain must be what talking is like for him all the time.

Yul Khulan tilts his head slightly and considers him.

“No,” he says finally, “I don’t think so. Dunwall hardly needs such a scandal arising around the Empress in such precarious times, don’t you think?”

Daud barely contains a shiver at the implication and wonders if Khulan knows about Corvo too or if he merely suspects.

“Besides,” the High Overseer continues as he moves behind Daud and kneels down, though his hand only reach for the bonds tying him to the chair and not for his throat which says much more than his words could, “it has been beneficial for the defence of the Empress against certain dangers to have someone so gifted amongst her supporters.”

“I thought the Overseers were supposed to be _against_ the Outsider,” Daud remarks, surprised.

“We are,” Khulan agrees with a grunt as the ropes slacken slightly and then fall away. Free of their restricting grip Daud slumps forward and Khulan’s hand snaps to grasp his shoulder. “I don't have to like what you are, but I think you and I know better, Daud, that it is not the actions of Gods but those of men that have destroyed this world. Correct me if I'm wrong but I believe it was your predecessor's and his little ring of conspirators idea to kill the Empress, not yours, and as far as I know not one of them was a heretic.”

Oh, Daud likes this one.

Khulan straightens and holds out his hand. “Now come on, I’d hate to be late for the Fugue Feast.”

Though he can’t see clearly out of his blackened eye and his lungs still burn from whatever potion the witches made him inhale, Daud twists his head towards the offered limb, grasps it, and gives its owner a bloodied grin.

“High Overseer Khulan,” with a huff of effort and a groan of pain from the injured man Khulan helps Daud to his feet, “in another world, I think we might have been friends.”

~’*’~

19th Day, Month of Rain, 1846

Amelia spars with a grace that Daud has seldom seen beyond his own footwork and that of the Lord Protector. She’s a credit to his training and he’s proud of her and he watches her hold her own against two of the newer Whalers with ease, even Rinaldo, who is officiating the training match looks impressed.

Standing companionably beside him, Corvo observes the duel with a critical gaze.

“Amelia’s good.”

Coming from the Lord Protector, against whom ninety-nine percent of swordsmen are barely adequate, that’s high praise indeed.

“Yeah,” Daud muses as Amelia blocks a tricky swipe and twists expertly to avoid the next, “she’s a natural. Picked up dancing really fast too.”

Corvo hums, half his attention still on the match.

Somehow in the midst of spinning blades Amelia finds time to shoot him a grin and a wave. Daud chuckles lightly at her smugness and waves back.

“Good afternoon,” Thomas’ voice announces and Daud turns to greet his second. Corvo signs a brief hello before drifting away to get a better viewpoint on the sparring match and leaving them to discuss business in peace.

“Anything new?” Daud prompts.

“Nothing yet,” Thomas replies bluntly, “everything seems to have quietened down now that the rumours of Theodanis’ illness have faded away.”

“Let’s hope they were just rumours then.”

“Indeed,” Thomas muses.

The pair observe the duel as the conversation drops momentarily.

Then Daud goes to speak, to ask after the new recruits, but his breath catches as the coughing fit takes him by surprise and he ends up hunched over, propped up against the pillar.

“Master Daud, are you alright?”

Thomas’ hand hovers just above his shoulder, ready to grab hold should he fall.

“I’m,” _cough,_ “I’m not your,” _cough,_ “your Master anymore Thomas.”

Thomas shoots him an unconvinced glance that briefly overcomes the worry on his face. Daud wonders how long it will take the boy to understand that Daud considers him an equal. Probably the day he retires and makes Thomas the Royal Spymaster.

“If you say so sir.” Thomas finally lets his hand make contact as another fit overtakes him. “You should sit down.”

“’M fine.” Daud chokes out.

Thomas clearly doesn’t believe him for a second but he also doesn’t say anything, just quietly supports his old mentor with a loyalty Daud had never really fathomed.

Their relative peace is disturbed abruptly by an approaching tirade of cursing in both Tyvian and Gristolian.

“Monty,” Thomas greets in relief as the source marches intently around the corner, “perhaps you can talk some sense into him.”

Finding himself face to face with an angry Whaler holding a vase of the elixir Sokolov and Piero’s had created to help his lungs Daud wilts. When Montgomery was pissed off enough to swear, nothing would stand in the medic’s way.

“You,” Montgomery Petrov snaps poking him squaring in the chest even as he yanks him roughly upright and shoves the elixir into his hand, “need to fucking listen to your doctors, or at least tell us when you decide to go on a fucking field trip. Do you have any idea how much crap I get from Harrowick when I have to chase you down and patch you up because you have exactly zero shitting respect for your health?”

Appropriately chastised Daud drops his eyes. He never liked disappointing the Whalers, but he hates disappointing Montgomery most of all, with his gentle heart and his dedication to healing. His justification sounds weak even to his ears.

“I just wanted to spend time with my daughter.”

Beside him Montgomery deflates as his frustration seeps out and sympathy seeps in. The medic sighs as he watches Daud obediently down the vile-tasting medicine.

“Well, at least leave a fucking note next time, alright?”

The words are quiet and resigned, which makes Daud feel even worse.

Montgomery gathers himself after a moment and begins to guide Daud towards the nearest bench and although he’ll never admit it out loud Daud is touched by the care they show him.

As he is herded quite firmly towards the side of the courtyard Daud catches Corvo watching Amelia again out of the corner of his eye. The Lord Protector is wearing an expression that Daud can’t quite place.

All he knows is he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.


	4. All ( Good ) Things Must Reach Their End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve learned that our choices always matter, to someone, somewhere. And sooner or later, in ways we cannot always fathom, the consequences come back to us.” - Daud, Dishonored 2 (Audiograph).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it.  
> Apologies for the delay. I was dissertation writing and then hit writers block. But we got there in the end.  
> I've known how this work was going to end from the beginning, I'm so glad to be able to share it with ya'll now.  
> There are ever-so-very slight references to DOTO in here - not plot related, merely asethetic. *glares angrily at what DOTO did to Daud.*  
> Happy reading!

~’*’~

All ( Good ) Things Must Reach Their End

1847 - 1848

~’*’~

 

1st Day, Month of Ice, 1847

There was once a time when Daud could have quite happily smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in a day, had he the money to acquire them.

Not anymore.

If Daud is completely honest with himself he hasn’t been right since the explosion several years ago had made a further mess of his back and forced Aislin Harrowick to take extreme measures to save his life.

Then the remains of the Brigmore coven, and they really were remains now thankfully, had forced him to inhale some foul concoction than had bamboozled even Sokolov which had done a rather effective job of completely messing up his lungs.

Now, Daud can’t even stand being in the same room as any drifting smoke. Which was why he was currently hunched over in a hidden corner outside the room, one hand braced against the wall, the other clutched to his chest, trying and failing to stifle his latest coughing fit.

Just as he’s beginning to think that it will never end, that he will asphyxiate because his lungs simply will not cooperate and black spots were starting to appear across his vision a pair of strong arms wrap gently but firmly around him and a deep soothing voice murmurs:

“Easy.”

Corvo. Thank the Void.

Relaxing minutely, Daud allows his fellow Serkonan take some of his weight, no longer ashamed of showing weakness in front of the man who had somehow, defying all logic, become a close friend.

“Relax Daud, slow your breathing.”

“Can’t,” Daud manages to choke out between spasms.

“Yes you can,” Corvo responds with the infuriating calm of someone not struggling to inhale.

Ever observant, even on the brink of unconsciousness, Daud can’t help to note that Corvo’s voice sounds smoother today. At least Sokolov’s medicines have helped one of them, Corvo rarely resorts to sign around him anymore unless talking is especially painful.

Through a mixture of Corvo’s gentle encouragement and a stubborn attempt to relax his misbehaving muscles, Daud manages to take a few deeper breaths and sags into Corvo’s hold as the light-headedness fades.

“They’re getting worse.”

There’s concern swimming in those hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” Daud agrees because there’s no point denying it in the face of the evidence.

“I though Sokolov and Piero had come up with something that helped?”

“They did,” Daud fails to contain the final few coughs that want to break free and he allows himself to slump against the wall, confident that Corvo would catch him if he fell. “Only so much they can do.”

The words do nothing to abate the worry that Corvo is radiating.

Confident that he can now stand without support he pulls away from Corvo’s hold, though the Protector looks reluctant to let him go.

“Just, look after yourself,” Corvo murmurs as they move to go their separate ways, “Emily needs you.”

Daud struggles to swallow around the lump in his throat.

~’*’~

22nd Day, Month of Timber, 1847

When Amelia finally wakes to the Void she is not startled in the least.

Daud has told her all about the Void, and the Outsider, though admittedly his accounts were tinged with his less-than-stellar opinions on both. There are no secrets between them, her and Daud. Or at least there hadn’t been until Corvo mentioned that she’d make an excellent Royal Protector. Now she hides more things from her father than she’d like to admit.

Standing on the edge of a floating rock in her nightwear, Amelia glares out into the dark.

“Outsider?” she calls when the god fails to appear.

She doesn’t jump when he suddenly materialises beside her, though it’s a near thing.

 “How you’ve grown, little Amelia Costella.”

It seems Daud was right about one thing, his tone of voice is definitely bordering on condescension.

“Al-Maharib,” she interrupts promptly, Daud hadn’t been able to keep his surname from her forever, and even if it isn’t hers legally, she claims it nonetheless. Besides, it’ll be official soon enough.

Equally she is determined to push the god off-balance, perhaps out of some deep-hidden spite. Amelia wouldn’t say she hates the Outsider, but she resents what some of his manipulating has done to her father.

 “Interesting.” The Outsider is frowning, as though he’s not sure what to make of her. “Not many can lay claim to that name and the ties it has, fewer still chose to.”

 “I do.”

The Outsider hums in what might be agreement, tilting his head slightly to examine her.

“What a strange creature you are.”

“I am the daughter of Daud Al-Maharib. I’m not sure what else you were expecting,” Amelia is well aware of the kind of relationship that the whale god and her father have.

“Fascinating,” the Outsider vanishes and reforms beside her. Unlike the others he has approached across the years, she doesn’t even flinch back, but continues to stare at him impassively. “I offer you my Mark.”

“Why?”

If anything, this seems to annoy the Outsider more than her stoic and abrupt responses to his cryptic words. If it were possible, she would say he looked taken aback.

“Because I find you interesting.”

“Not good enough.”

So, that’s what a gobsmacked god looked like.

“I must have misunderstood.”

“You haven’t,” Amelia replies with a hint of anger and her usual lack of self-preservation, “I’ve seen the damage your fascination has caused, I see it every day in my father’s eyes and in Corvo’s voice. I won’t accept your interest.”

“What would you accept then?” the Outsider asks, clearly intrigued at the battle of minds she has engaged him in.

Amelia grins. Somewhere, deep down in whatever part of him was still human, the Outsider feels uneasy.

“I’ll accept the Mark under certain… _conditions_.”

~’*’~

23rd Day, Month of Timber, 1847

“Millie?” Daud knocks gently on the doorframe of his daughter’s room. She’s late and he’s worried. He’s been worried about her a lot lately, with Corvo’s sudden interest in her and the feeling that she’s keeping things from him.

There’s a load of rustling and cursing from within. Daud hesistates.

“Is everything alright?”

More banging and cursing. Daud is just getting ready to shoulder the door open when it flies open and a rather flustered-looking Amelia appears in the doorway.

“Father,” she greets slightly breathlessly. Daud narrows his eyes and sneaks a glance into her room over her shoulder with Void Gaze but finds a distinct lack of hiding lovers.

“Amelia,” he replies evenly, returning his gaze to him. If anything, she flushes more at that.

“I wasn’t… I haven’t been…”

Daud has never seen her so embarrassed. It’s adorable.

“I never said you were.”

He’s teasing her and she knows it. Nonetheless he sweeps his eyes over her and feels the good mood evaporate as his eyes alight upon something he hoped never to see. Suddenly chilled, he reaches out to grab her hand. Spotting his trajectory she tries to move away but it’s too late and his hand closes around her wrist, bringing the back of her palm firmly into his line of sight.

The Outsider’s Mark rests there, stark black lines clear as day.

“Not you,” he hears himself whisper, muffled as though from a distance, “please, anyone but you.”

“Father?”

Her voice sounds muffled too. He can’t draw his gaze away from that wretched Mark.

“Father!”

Awareness floods back in. His heart is racing, he can’t breathe.

“Come on.”

Amelia pulls him into the room, letting the door swing shut behind them, and firmly pushes him down until he’s seated against the wall, head hanging down between drawn up knees.

“Better?”

The ringing in his ears fades and he recognises the tail end of the panic attack.

“Yeah,” he manages to grunt. He can still see the Mark before his eyes.

“If it’s any consolation,” Amelia declares suddenly from her crouched position across from him, “I made it clear that I had conditions.”

“And the black-eyed bastard accepted?” The disbelief in his voice is tangible even to him.

“I didn’t give him much of a choice.”

Of course she didn’t. Raising his eyes he looks at his daughter; so bold, so blunt, so assertive, so vulnerable.

“Only you, Millie,” he finally says with a hint of a chuckle, “only you.”

“So you don’t hate me then?”

Her tone is joking but her eyes say differently and he feels something pull at his heartstrings. Opening his arms, he pulls Amelia into an embrace, one hand stroking her hair, the other holding her close.

“Never, Millie,” he whispers into her hair, eyes closed against the pain the thought of her uncertainty had caused, “I could never hate you.”

They stay curled in their embrace on the floor of Amelia’s room for a long time.

~’*’~ 

4th Day, Month of Earth, 1848

Daud looks down at his cards but he doesn’t really see them. Across from him Corvo fidgets, shifting the order of his hand around. Neither of them are paying any attention to the game now that the rest of the Whalers have left.

There’s an elephant in the room that needs addressing, that’s needed addressing for a while and neither man is the sort to draw out the inevitable.

With a sigh, Daud puts his cards down and decides the charade has gone on long enough.

“What you want with Amelia?”

The words come out brusquer than he’d intended but he can’t help but be protective where his daughter is concerned.

Corvo levels him with a brutally honest look and decides the same. He tears the bandage off in one short, succinct sentence.

“I want Amelia to replace me as the Royal Protector when I retire.”

The words hover in the air. Daud wonders if Corvo knows that he signs along with his speech when he’s nervous.

“It’s dangerous.”

“She’s capable, you know she is.”

“She’s my _daughter_.”

Daud hates how much his words sound like a plea. Corvo hesitates before responding with a choked.

“I know.”

“You can’t.”

“No, Daud,” Corvo sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “I _know_. Every time Emily…”

The Royal Protector cuts himself off but he’s said enough. Daud always suspected of course but Corvo had never formally confirmed it until now.

Dropping his gaze back to their discarded cards Daud huffs a soft laugh.

“Look at the pair of us, we’re hopeless.”

Corvo lets out a tentative smile as their eyes meet.

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

~’*’~ 

9th Day, Month of Harvest, 1848

Beside him, Daud can feel Corvo shifting his weight anxiously.

It’s not that Corvo doesn’t have the right to be concerned, Daud understands how hard it is to let your children go, but Emily had insisted that Amelia, Alexi and a small contingent of carefully-selected guards were more than enough protection for her trip to the countryside.

Besides, it had been a good opportunity to test the skills of the next generation of royal officers.

Finally, just as Daud thinks Corvo is going to snap and do something reckless the doors of Dunwall Tower creak open to announce the safe return of the Empress and her party. Moments later, Emily walks in, purposeful and proud, though Daud can see her nerves beneath the mask.

But it’s not Emily who catches his eye.

Amelia looks incredible. Unlike Corvo or himself, clad in the dark blue and red of their offices respectively (opposites yet complementary, so fitting), her coat is a rich emerald green with golden trimmings, fit tight but comfortable. Her left hand is uncovered. Seeing the Mark is still jarring but he takes comfort in knowing that to those not touched by the Outsider, her hand is bare of heretical symbols.

When she stands beside Emily, who wears the deep blue-purple of the Kaldwin family, she looks like she belongs there.

She looks powerful. She looks dangerous.

It hurts to think that it is his fault she has turned into a weapon.

As though sensing Daud’s internal conflict Amelia pauses and heads towards him after excusing herself to Emily and Alexi.

Daud doesn’t look well, she knows he’s not been sleeping well, despite the draughts that Sokolov has been making. He looks tired and worn again and it leaves a lump in her throat. But worst is the look in his eyes, that wretched self-hatred that always returns eventually.

“Father? What’s wrong?”

Daud hesitates; there are no words for this. Thankfully Amelia has known him far too long and doesn’t need words. Her hands come up to cradle his face, sword calloused fingers brush over his scar.

“Don’t punish yourself for this father,” she says softly, “you have not made me into a killer, you have made me into a guardian, a protector.” Her smile is weak and wobbly; there are sorrowful tears in her eyes. “I would have chosen this path with or without your help father, but know that I am infinitely better, and safer, because of your teachings. Know that your training will be put to good use, not ill.”

Daud looks at her, properly looks, and is faced not by his daughter, but by Amelia Al-Maharib, Royal Protector in training. He cannot work out when she grew up, grew wise.

Suddenly, he knows exactly what to say.

“I love you Amelia.”

She closes her eyes, her forehead comes to rest against his own. For a moment they just breathe.

“I know father, I’ve always known.” Daud chokes back a sob and opens his eyes to meet her steady gaze. “Rest father, just for a little while, please, for me. Go back to Serkonos if you must, back to our vineyard, just promise me you’ll rest. You’ve earned it.”

Corvo’s hand comes to rest on Amelia’s back, his other grasps Daud’s shoulder. Caught between them Daud is overwhelmed by the feeling of protection and safety they are radiating.

Overwhelmed by the fact that he genuinely _feels_ safe.

 “I’ll look after her.”

Daud’s eyes fly to meet Emily’s, the Empress having snuck into their conversation. There’s a cheeky smile pulling at her lips but a serious edge to her words.

“Besides,” the Empress continues with a hard yet oddly affection look that he can’t ignore, “I believe you’re well overdue a holiday.”

 ~’*’~

28th Day, Month of Harvest, 1848

The vineyard hasn’t changed a bit.

Daud has.

Marissa has done an excellent job of ensuring the villa’s upkeep and in taking over the operation of the vineyard. It’s as much hers and it is his now.

Sat once again in his favourite spot, looking out upon the waves and the gentle sounds of the wildlife of Serkonos around him, Daud takes a deep breath and revels in the way that he can breathe deeply here, deeply and easily, away from the pollution and smoke of Dunwall.

“Coffee?” Marissa offers him a cup as she joins him.

They’ve danced around each other since his arrival, not used to sharing the space, no longer used to each other. Marissa’s tentative caution he knew wasn’t meant to hurt, but he wasn’t made of glass. Not anymore.

“Thank you.”

Taking the cup he inhales its strong aroma. The coffee in Dunwall is never quite the same as a fresh brew of Serkonos. There’s a certain feeling of _home_ that he associates with the sharp and biter smell.

“So, you’re leaving this evening.”

Daud hums in reply.

“You’ve only been here a few weeks.”

“I know,” he murmurs around a sip of coffee.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?”

There’s worry in her voice, but it’s misplaced. He knows how he must look, greying and battered, but as much as the last few weeks have done wonders, he’s also starting to get bored, itching to jump back into the rush of life at court.

“I appreciate your concern Marissa, but there are people back in Dunwall that need me.”

Her cautious smile seems to lighten somewhat at that.

“That they do, Daud. That they do.”

Her hand lightly squeezes his shoulder before she moves to head back to the villa. Her villa now. Not that she’ll know until after he’s left for Gristol.

Taking a deep breath and lifting his eyes to watch the beginning of the sunset Daud knows with an unerring certainty that he’ll never see this place again. His eyes close against the light of the sun.

Something’s coming, changing, just over the horizon. He can feel it.

 ~’*’~

21st Day, Month of Wind, 1848

Emily, now twenty-one years of age, stands just in front of her throne as she announces her choice from row of prospective Royal Protectors in front of her. Corvo, having finally admitted that he’s getting older and less certain about his ability to do his job to his daughter, reluctantly steps to the side to allow one of the young, hopeful candidates to take his place.

It’s one heck of a legacy to follow.

Daud doesn’t need to look closely to know which one is Amelia. He doesn’t need to listen to know which one Emily will pick. He’s known since the day the girls met that nothing would separate them.

He watches with a mix of pride, joy and sorrow as Amelia Al-Maharib becomes the next Royal Protector.

Corvo’s hand drops onto his shoulder in comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Corvo says softly, understandingly.

“Don’t be,” Daud replies, voice choked with emotion, “it’s what she wants.”

The announcement ends and the applause begins as Amelia takes up Corvo’s folding sword from Emily’s hands, twirls it nearly shut and fastens it to her belt.

“It’s hard isn’t it? Letting them go.”

Daud watches as Amelia takes her place beside Empress Emily Kaldwin, one step behind and one to the left. It’s strange to see someone standing there who isn’t Corvo. On her other side lurks Thomas, who was officially appointed the Royal Spymaster in a much quieter, more intimate ceremony just over a week ago.

Of course, Daud can read the subtext. Corvo doesn’t just mean letting their daughters out from under their wing either. He knows how much Corvo’s job meant to him.

Perhaps it’s time for him to teach Corvo a thing or two about retirement.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees quietly as he leads the now-retired Lord Protector away from the crowds, from court life, from their children.

They end up out on the balcony overlooking the gardens and they settle comfortably side-by-side to the sound of softly lapping waves. Two friends, no longer Protector and Spymaster, once again trying to find their place in the world.

“But all things must come to their end,” Daud muses as he watches the first fireworks burst in the sky, “even us.”

 

* * *

 

~’*’~

Epilogue

1850

~’*’~

 

15th Day, Month of Darkness, 1850

Daud is not afraid of death.

There was a time when he had been ready to walk into its open arms, fighting, kicking and screaming, to leave the world in much the same way as he had arrived in it. He hadn’t counted on the Outsider being such a meddling bastard and Daud had walked free time and again.

But all in all he isn't really surprised when his eyes open to the Void and to the Outsider watching him with a sorrowful gaze.

"Huh," he mutters, glancing down at his body glitching in and out of existence, "so this is it then."

If the Outsider is confused by his quick and easy acceptance of the situation then it doesn't show on his face. Instead, he hesitates, as though struggling to find words, and to Daud that is more shocking than anything else could ever be.

"...yes," the Outsider finally settles on.

Crouching down, he sits on the edge of the floating peninsular and takes in the sight of the flying whales for the last time. He can breathe easier here, air filling his lungs. Only, is this his body? Or is it just a construct, an avatar, a ghost? Perhaps even the act of breathing is an illusion; Void knows he doesn’t need to anymore. He stops thinking about it.

Daud is not afraid of death.

Instead he thinks of Amelia, once again facing the world alone. He thinks of Corvo losing one of the few people to truly understand him. He thinks of Emily, a surrogate daughter despite everything. He has many regrets, but he can't bring himself to regret them, only the missed opportunities.

"So, what happens now?" he asks, legs swinging over the abyss as the Outsider perches beside him.

"Nothing ever lingers here long," the Outsider muses, "though my Marked tend to linger longer than most."

Daud nods, eyes fixed on the Void. "Do you do final requests?"

If the Outsider could be startled then this was what he would look like. It passes quickly though and his expression fades to something that Daud would tentatively describe as fondness.

"Blunt and practical as ever,” the god acknowledges. Then, “only for old friends."

A ghostly hand reaches into Daud's fractured chest, wraps around his battered heart and squeezes.

“Watch over Millie," he finally whispers, turning to look the god in the eyes. The Outsider holds his gaze, unflinching.

"To the best of my abilities."

Well, Daud thinks, you can't ask for more than that. "Thank you."

“You’re welcome.”

They watch the whales in silence as Daud feels his connection to this place slowly drifting away, colour muting, air cooling. He wonders if anyone will remember him.

“People have short memories.”

Daud’s eyes widen as he hears his own words quoted back at him.

“What about it?” he eventually queries when it becomes clear that the god has no intention of continuing his train of thought.

“Already the legends of the assassin of an Empress fade from their memories. They won’t remember you as the Knife of Dunwall, a man so soaked in blood that you could float a ship on it. No, when they remember you, and they will, they will remember the Royal Spymaster who gave everything he was in selfless service of the Empress.”

The Outsider turns to look at him and Daud’s breath catches at the severity in those fathomless black depths.

“I never thought I would say this Daud, but you have exceeded my expectations. Few who accept my Mark do things truly worthy of it; they use it for power or love, or revenge. And yet, with all the darkness and corruption world has to offer and all the horrors you have walked through, you chose to use it for redemption.”

Daud says nothing, there is nothing left to say.

“And then, you go one further, and actually _earn_ it, consider me impressed.” the Outsider hesitates and then manages an almost-smile as the Void dissolves into darkness. His voice floats as though on a breeze.

“I will miss you Daud, my old friend. Farewell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it really is the end this time!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos, or commented.  
> Without you guys, this sequel would not have come into being and I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.  
> x


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